Stormshadow
Storms in Amethir : Book two
Stephanie A. Cain
Also by Stephanie A. Cain
Storms in Amethir
Stormsinger
Stormshadow
Stormseer
The Weather War (forthcoming)
Storms in Amethir Holiday Novellas
The Midwinter Royal
Faith and Fealty
Sow the Wind
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Stormseer Sneak Preview
About the Author
DEDICATION
Dedicated to Joe Rosenbaum,
because many years ago I promised I would.
PART ONE - TAMNEN
CHAPTER ONE
"Come, one last match," Azmei pleaded, looking up at her brother. "Think of how long it might be before we ever see each other again."
She had waylaid him after breakfast, knowing he had responsibilities--but she had responsibilities too, after all. Besides, she was leaving in a fortnight, perhaps forever, and Razem was travelling east to take command at the front. They might never see each other again.
Razem's stern expression melted. "You know exactly how impossible it is to resist you when you look at someone like that, don't you?" He scowled at her trousers and plain shirt, the sword and dagger hanging from her belt. "You planned this."
"Of course I did." Azmei was unrepentant. "We haven't tested our blades against each other in ages, and this might be our last chance, at least until after I'm an old, married matron. I want to see if I've grown better than you in the past year."
"Small chance of that, shortling," he teased, and ruffled her hair. "Come along, then, let's find an empty ring."
Azmei felt like skipping as they made their way to the training yards. Once upon a time, she and Razem had fought practice matches every few weeks. She had always longed to beat her brother, but it never happened. She had just reached the point where she could wear him down and score a touch on him when Razem began training with the professional warriors of their army. After that, he didn't have much time for Azmei's recreational swordplay. Princes were expected to prove their valor in warfare, and the bloody conflict over the Kreyden District would give him that opportunity. It had been at least a year since Razem had seen Azmei fight.
They stretched and limbered up. In anticipation of the match, Azmei had worn her hair braided back from her face. Grinning at him, she drew her sword in her right hand and her dagger in her left.
"Very well, shortling, let's see if you're any better than you were last time." Razem's sword was longer, and he had the reach of her, but Azmei had always been quicker than he. It was perhaps the only advantage in being so small. She was able to dart in, feinting, and then skip out of his way before he could touch on her.
What began as a laughing, lighthearted bout quickly turned into a more serious match as Razem discovered how much Azmei had practiced recently. She'd gone at her exercises more strenuously since learning she would be going on a sea voyage. Most of the danger would be averted simply because the Storm Petrel--Amethir's most notorious privateer--would be escorting the Amethirian prince to meet Azmei, and therefore not preying on Tamnese ships. But there was always the chance a Strid ship would decide the Victorious looked like easy prey. Azmei would not be the sort of princess who relied on others to protect her.
"You've been practicing, little sister," Razem said. He wasn't out of breath yet, but his voice no longer had the easygoing tone.
"And observing the training classes as often as possible," she agreed. She danced in, feinting with her sword while thrusting with her dagger. Razem deflected it neatly and turned it into a counterstrike. Azmei swore under her breath, and Razem laughed at her.
"Less bragging, shortling," he advised. "Let your actions speak for you."
They fell to it in earnest then. She could tell Razem was feeling her out for any weaknesses or slow maneuvers. She couldn't quite match him stroke for stroke, but her footwork came with less effort than his. Probably all the dancing practice she'd been forced to do lately.
Their blade hilts locked. Azmei shoved her hip against Razem's, trying to knock him off balance. He hooked a foot around her ankle and jerked. Azmei tumbled, swearing.
"You always try that trick, and you always fail." Razem backed up, lowering his blade, but Azmei rolled to her feet, lunging at him. He managed to parry--but only just.
"That's a new trick," she crowed, falling into the guard position again. Razem grunted and came at her again.
"You'll probably pester the Storm Petrel for fencing lessons, won't you?" he muttered. "My sister, surrounded by stormwitches and pirates. It's sickening."
"It's practical," she countered, blocking his dagger with her own. She didn't have too many tricks with her blades--she just practiced the ones she had until they were polished. Most of them didn't work on Razem, since he was used to her fighting style, but the new one should have worked.
"Father sold you to the Amethirian prince!" Razem's swings had more force to them. Azmei felt the shock of countering them all the way to her shoulders.
"He maneuvered me into a position to be useful to you," she snapped. "And you'd do better to be grateful for it! Have you forgotten about Dinnsan?"
She ducked under Razem's next swing. She came up under his blade, hitting at his stomach with the pommel of her dagger. He twisted to avoid it and stumbled several steps. He spat into the dirt of the ring. "Honorless dogs."
Dinnsan was the final blow to an already-crumbling defense of the western Kreyden District. The Strid legion had burned the entire town after breaching the wall. Razem and Azmei's cousin had been killed in the defense. His death was what made her agree to the peace treaty. Six months later, Razem was still furious about Dinnsan. While Azmei had lapsed into grief, her anger flaring occasionally, Razem's hatred burned strong.
Azmei sighed and lowered her blade. "I shouldn't have brought it up," she mumbled.
Razem's blade rang against hers. It caught her by surprise. Her sword went flying and landed in the dirt. Azmei glared at her brother.
He sheathed his blades. "Never let down your guard. The moment your enemy seems weakest might be the moment he's arranged to disarm you."
Azmei wanted to stick her tongue out at him, as she had when they were just learning how to hold a sword. She sighed instead and went to pick up her weapon. She checked it for nicks and wiped the dirt from the blade using her shirt tail.
"I shall keep practicing," she said. "The next time we meet, I'll beat you."
He didn't laugh. "I believe you might. I must practice more diligently in anticipation."
Azmei looked around and saw a servant standing by with a jug of water and drying cloths. Their match had drawn more attention than she'd intended. She and Razem both washed their hands and faces, then drank gratefully.
Before they parted, Azmei to return to the onerous task of packing whatever she might need for her new life in Amethir and Razem to attend whatever meetings or councils he had skipped to humo
r her, she put a hand on his arm. "Thank you, big brother," she said, and went on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
His gaze softened. "I am glad I could oblige, little sister."
"Be careful," she implored. "After Venra--" She broke off, nose prickling. Venra had been their favorite cousin. But Razem understood what she didn't say.
He bent to kiss her forehead. "You be careful too, Az. I'm not the only one going into danger."
...And I look forward to meeting you in person, my esteemed friend. Until our appointment in Ranarr I remain,
Yours most cordially,
Azmei Reera Corrone
Azmei signed her letter with a flourish and glowered, dissatisfied, at it. She had used the finest parchment and a beautiful violet ink, as befit a princess writing to her betrothed. And her handwriting was tidy, if too careful. It was the reason for her letter that left much to be desired.
But she'd sworn, after Venra's death, that she would do anything in her power to end the war. Then again, six months ago, she hadn't realized it would cost her freedom. Now she was planning to marry a boy she'd never met, living halfway around the world.
Azmei huffed impatiently and stood, touching a chime that resonated through her apartments. Her handmaid Guira came from the sleeping chamber, a folded blanket in her hands.
"See that this makes it on the Dancer before she leaves harbor, please," Azmei said.
Guira's smile was sympathetic. "Another letter to Prince Vistaren?" She set aside the blanket and took the letter.
"Probably the last I'll be able to send before we leave to actually meet him," Azmei said. She caught the doleful note in her voice and despised herself for it. She was a princess of Tamnen. She had been raised to be stalwart and proud. She spoke three languages and read four. She could dance even if her embroidery was appalling. And she could marry the Crown Prince of Amethir if her kingdom needed it.
There was no place in her life for self-pity.
"He seems a kind and intelligent man, my lady." Guira didn't look up as she folded the letter and sealed it with violet wax. "I am looking forward to seeing him in person."
"I don't care if he's an ogre who can't string a sentence together, if this marriage ends the war with Strid," Azmei lied.
Guira laughed as she was supposed to, which made Azmei feel better. "I am certain he isn't an ogre. Even Amethirians with their stormwitchery must have standards."
Azmei shivered despite herself. She didn't know much about stormwitchery, but it both intrigued and frightened her. Amethir, it was said, never saw snow. There was no winter at all in Amethir--just dry, wet, and storm season. Life would be very different in her husband's country.
Outside her apartments a bell rang three times. Guira jumped. "Oh! I'd better hurry. The Dancer leaves on the evening tide." She dipped a perfunctory curtsy and hurried out.
Azmei didn't want to be left alone with her thoughts. She knew she had much to be grateful for. She could have been given to a Strid prince, for example. It might be a better hope for peace, but her father had said the older Strid prince's offer had been insulting, and the younger prince was a boy of eleven. A good king did what was best for his kingdom, but Marsede was a good father as well, and had chosen a path more likely to make his daughter happy.
"So stop complaining," she told herself, and went to find the book of Amethirian hero tales she had begun reading yesterday.
"Hurry, you fool," Orya Perslyn muttered at her cousin. "If you make us late, I'll have your right hand to match your foot. This is why you'll always be left in the shop!"
"I'm sorry, my lady, so sorry. I will go faster." Wenda had been born with a twisted foot, and Orya knew it was unkind to tweak her about it.
Orya took a deep breath. "Just--You know how important this is. For the patriarch to summon us--"
"I know, Orya. I'll do better. I'm honored he chose me to accompany you." Wenda picked up her pace, though it was obvious from how her limp deepened that it hurt her.
Of course she was honored. She should be. Orya was among the brightest of her age group, and she had never--never--failed to complete a contract since her second one. A failed contract was deducted from your tally, and Orya carried a double tally as it was.
The click of her shoes echoed as she ran up the marble steps. When she reached the top, though, she forced herself to wait. If she arrived without Wenda, the patriarch might doubt her ability to work with others. He might send someone else, despite the importance of this contract. Orya couldn't risk losing it. She stilled her fingers on the polished wooden banister and waited.
She had trained all her life for this mission. Though she hadn't known the particulars until two months ago, she had been raised in an atmosphere of competition and ambition. The patriarch provided for the family, but each member must haul their weight. Contracts didn't fulfill themselves after all, and her family's reach was far enough that it took many, many daughters, sons, aunts, and cousins to do the patriarch's will.
So Orya had learned her trade even as she learned her place in the family. Each family member was expected to provide a tally of one hundred contracts, not counting their years of apprenticeship, after reaching the age of majority. Orya was in her eighth year, and the patriarch himself had promised if she clinched this contract, he would declare her first tally complete. She wanted to be the youngest to complete her tally. She had to be.
Princess Azmei's proposed betrothal to the Amethirian Prince had been unexpected, but Orya's was an adaptable philosophy. The wedding would provide an entirely new market for them in Amethir. Traveling with the princess would give the impression Orya was Azmei's favored and lend her cachet upon arrival in the neutral Ranarr.
And she needed Wenda to help her sell that. She glanced over her shoulder and saw her cousin struggling with the next-to-last step. Holding in an impatient sigh, Orya turned and held out a hand.
"At least we'll have good quarters on the ship," she said, ignoring the look of surprise on Wenda's face as she gripped hands with her. "You shouldn't have to deal with any ladders. And we'll hire a chair for you when we get to Ranarr."
The way Wenda's face lit up twinged at Orya's conscience. There was precious little kindness in their family. Orya's branch of the trade didn't allow for it, but she needed to remember that Wenda was not her adversary.
"Come," Orya said, her voice sharp again. "The patriarch is waiting."
The patriarch wasn't as old as the title implied, though he had at least five decades behind him. He was tall and needle-thin. His hair was pure white and cropped close to his head; his beard was similarly short. Dressed in white and gray, he looked hard. His wit and his tongue cut like a new pair of shears.
He was drumming his fingertips against the window as Orya and Wenda went to their knees before him. His gaze was fixed on something beyond the glass. Orya knew it was meant to convey how insignificant she was. It was also unnecessary. He had conveyed her position very clearly to her already.
"You are late." His voice was thin and cold. Orya tried to remember a single moment in her life when it had warmed, but failed. Her only recollections were of his wielding that voice like a whip to tease out the slightest failure or imperfection.
"I am very sorry, patriarch," she replied. There was no point in excuses. They would only make her look pathetic and foolish. You did not make excuses; you accepted the consequences of your failure and did better next time.
CRACK! She jumped at the sound of his palm slapping the stone windowsill. "You are sorry." His voice was soft. Orya stayed still only by sheer will as he paced towards them.
"It was my fault, patriarch," Wenda said. Orya pressed her tongue against her front teeth, biting back words. Stupid Wenda, answering him back! She would earn herself a beating she was ill-equipped to take.
But to Orya's surprise, the patriarch's expression softened. "Yes, I expect it was, Wenda," he said, cupping her chin in his hand. It almost looked like a caress. Wenda tilted her head to accept the affecti
on, then recoiled as he slapped her.
"I have reasons for selecting you, of all people, to accompany Orya," he hissed. "Do not mistake those reasons for need. If you hinder Orya's execution of her assignment in any way, I will terminate your contract with the family."
Wenda pressed her lips together, her eyes cast down at the floor as her cheek reddened. Orya's estimation of her went up. A lesser cousin would have babbled excuses or apologies, hoping for mercy. Wenda had more strength than Orya had credited.
"As for you," the patriarch said, swinging around to look at Orya. "You are arrogant, brash, over-confident, and too eager to please. Your desperation reeks of weakness. Your emotions betray your foolishness." He sighed. "Yet I have reasons for selecting you, of all people, to carry out this mission." He went to one knee in front of her, steely gray eyes meeting hers. They were like sharpened mirrors; Orya felt them slice through her pretenses.
"If you fail, you will not be punished." His lips were thin. They curled ever-so-slightly at the edges. He saw her fear and hatred. He reveled in them. "You will merely be sent back to apprenticeship to relearn your duties."
Patriarchs came and went, but this man had been patriarch for fifteen years, since his father's untimely death. Orya had known life under another patriarch, but she remembered it only in scraps and patches: being lifted to someone's shoulders, having a blanket tucked tenderly under her chin, thin hands resting on the top of her head. She hated this patriarch even more for his mockery of such things.
"Of course, grandfather," she said. "Your will shall be carried out."
CHAPTER TWO
The ballroom was full of Tamnen's nobility come to bid her farewell. Azmei's ship sailed in a week, but the leave-taking celebration had to take place on an auspicious day, so the augurs had said.
Stormshadow (Storms in Amethir Book 2) Page 1
